Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2018  Vol. 17 No. 1
an online journal of literature and the arts
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Two Women

Two women rise into my sight
through wisps of mist.

It is morning

here and there, and nothing interrupts
two figures

identical in every way

with a broad, hollow stone
planted between them.

It does not smell

of sacrifice, spit goulash or stew.
The ocean bumbles

below us, drugged;

and the women bend forward,
only the tremor

of their eyes—
so gray they could be violet—

telling me they’re alive;

and a ringing
sound from behind their lips.

They are ageless;

they are so slender
they might be boys.

Their dark skirts pulse

and mottled black moths
flutter out.

An arm stretch away,

I can feel the heat
from their foreheads,

see their fingernails
curl and grow

at an astonishing rate;

and then I notice the taut fiber,
like a violin string,

connecting both women

and pierced through
their chins.

They cannot speak
or scream or turn away.

It is a cruel marriage.

Their blouses are stained
with the rust

of yesterday’s blood:
they have learned

to wear it like jewelry.  

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